Category: My stories

Everything was clipboards and paper and charts, and it was so easy to lose information.
Patients would get the wrong food or medications, and it was more paperwork for us.
We switched to iPads, and the errors decreased a lot.
Putting barcodes on wristbands made it even easier to track patients and their needs.
We tried giving them a pill with an RFID tag in it so they’d automatically sync up with our pads, but the metal was enough to cause problems in the MRI machine.
The pill would come out like a bullet.
And those MRI machines are expensive.

The company built a fancy resort hotel and then gave away rooms to dozens of social media influencers.
“Tell the world what you honestly think,” the company said.
So, they did.
They said it was fancy, an experience of a lifetime.
The food, the rooms, the service, the pool… everything was simply the best.
Their blog posts and instagrams and youtube videos gushed hyperbolic praise and joy.
Their posts filled up with nasty comments, wanting to know if they’d had gone and been so happy if they had to pay.
But the influencers were already at another resort.
Comped, naturally.

I don’t go for cause bumperstickers.
There’s only one on my car, which I rarely drive, and it’s a clearish Debauche sticker.
Right side of the rear bumper.
Nobody will get the joke, and I don’t care if they do.
You see those cars out there, plastered with stickers, and they look like crap.
As if the bumpsterstickers are holding the damn thing together.
I’d rather not be a lending library or road hazard with all that writing.
Provide your own damn entertainment.
The only thing I care about people driving behind me is that they use their brakes right.

In school, there was always that one kid who’d bring the teacher apples.
That kid was me.
“Thank you,” the teacher would say. And she’d eat the apple. “Delicious.”
I was a smart kid, and I got good grades on my own.
But I’m sure the apples helped.
Until one day I got a bad grade for something.
That’s when I mentioned that the first apple had poison in it.
“And the other apples have a temporary antidote.”
From then on, I got good grades.
And the teacher got the full antidote on the last day of class.
I think.

Today is an important day.
I wrote IMPORTANT on the calendar.
But I don’t remember why it is important.
I looked through my mail and my notes, but there’s nothing telling me what’s so important today.
I haven’t gotten any phone calls or emails or other messages about today.
I’ve asked everybody I know, but they have nothing… they need nothing from me, so it’s not something important I have to do for them.
So, I’ll just stop worrying and go through my day.
And if anything comes up tomorrow, or someone asks, I’ll know what was so damn important.

One hundred pegs along the wall of the cliffside monastery.
A brown robe hanging from each.
The monks had hung their robes on the pegs, filed out of the dormitory, and out the front gate.
Lining up at the edge of the cliff, one by one, the naked men leapt to their deaths.
Later that evening, one hundred naked men arrived at the gate.
They walked into the dormitory, picked out a robe, and put it on.
The new monks of the monastery.
Saying prayers together, praising their creator.
Until it was time for them to leap from the cliff.

Sarah doesn’t have nightmares.
She doesn’t need them.
She just remembers everything bad that’s ever happened to her.
And that’s a lot of bad things. Horrible things. Terrifying things.
When she wakes up, she writes down all the memories.
After a cup of coffee and a bowl of yogurt, she looks over her notes, and begins to write.
At the end of the day, she sends her writing to her editor.
Dinner, walking in the evening light, a shower, and off to bed.
For more memories to harvest.
And turn into novels
To give so many readers their own nightmares.

As November rolls around again, it’s the return of campaign season.
The ads and social networks are a cesspool of delusion and madness.
I can avoid them as best I can.
But my phone?
BING! BING! BING!
You’re not campaign volunteers. You’re goddamned parasites.
I turned off text alerts and vibration last week.
When do I look at my phone, I Report Junk on every campaign text.
And then go back to what I was doing.
I’ll turn it back on when this year’s shitshow ends, the credits roll, and the pundits throw shit at each other during the post-credits scene.

Every year, Nathan’s Famous sets up the tables and chairs for the contestants.
Trays of hot dogs and buns, and pitchers of water.
The crowd gathers, the contestants take their seats, and the judges set out the trays.
The crowd counts down from ten… nine… eight…
When they get to zero, the contestants peel out the hot dogs, swallow them, then dunk the buns in the pitchers and swallow the buns.
The judges keep tally… ten… twenty… thirty…
Some contestants stop… others vomit… but a few keep going.
The crowd counts down to zero, and the judges tally the winner.

The walk of fame is just a bunch of names on plaques in a sleazy part of Los Angeles.
Weirdos in costumes harass the tourists, and pickpockets steal whatever they can get their hands on.
Or you get mugged and robbed and you’re crawling on the ground asking for help.
It’s the walk of fame, not the crawl of fame, loser.
Show some dignity. Get the fuck up.
This is Hollywood, dammit.
And stop bleeding on Charleton Heston.
Well, his star… not the actual man.
I can take your picture with it for five bucks.
Just hand me your phone…